


No Gentleman

by Tammany



Series: Diplomacy [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Change, Consensual Kink, Consensual mild punishment, Light BDSM, M/M, consensual possessive relationship, fantasy incest (minor), mild sub/dom, self-evaluation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-23
Updated: 2017-08-23
Packaged: 2018-12-18 23:57:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11885586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: This is definitely a sequel to "A Confident Man," and "A Negotiated Surrender." The style and flavor are different, in part because it's all in Greg's head space as he tried to understand how he's become a (lower case) dom and a possessive bastard, to his own delight and Mycroft's. The prior two stories dealt with how Mycroft got what he wanted. This one deals with Greg finding out he's suited to fulfilling those desires of Mike's, and struggling a bit with the person who likes being a demanding bastard to the delight of his obedient boy.I hope you like it. It--niggled at me. After all, the story's no good if Greg's not having fun, too, but it's a dark and thorny kind of fun.





	No Gentleman

He had always been a gentleman.

He’d always been kind. Patient. Disciplined. Nurturing. Responsible. Forgiving. Adaptable.

He’d never been particularly demanding. Not that he could remember. (He shivered, then, remembering years of being Patsy’s sucker—faithful and willing to let her sins go, careful to never make her feel owned, used, taken for granted. Of course he appreciated her. Of course he knew he’d be worse off without her, no matter how she ran around, or how many lies she told him.)

A good bloke. A mensch.

“Chamomile, the sweeter for being trodden upon. That’s how Shakespeare put it,” Mike Stanford said one evening over a pint. He’d taken a juicy bite of his burger, stuffed a few chips into his mouth, chewed, swallowed, and added, “You’d make a good herb. Chamomile. Oregano. You add savor to life.”

“Shut your gob,” Greg had said, embarrassed. He didn’t feel like a gentleman. He felt like sucker bait. Or…

He laughed, then. What he felt like was Elmer Fudd. A nice little guy trapped in a world of wascally wabbits and ducks out of season—the punchline of every joke, no matter how he worked to be something better.

“You’re depressed tonight, aren’t you?” Stanford said, about ten minutes into the following monolog.

“What gave it away?”

“Most days you remember your wins, as well as your losses. You need to get out. Play some footie. Go to a movie. Get laid.”

Lestrade nearly sprayed his own chips across the table. Mike Stanford—Dr. Mike Stanford, round little nebbish extraordinaire, married for two decades and rude enough to be happy—was telling him to get laid.

“That’s where it usually starts going wrong,” he said, and avoided the subject for the rest of the evening, instead challenging the doctor to darts. It kept them busy and kept conversation to a minimum.

The truth was, he was getting laid.

Holy God and all the saints, was he getting laid.

The images flickered through his mind. The remembered sensations. The sounds. The emotional pauses.

Mycroft Holmes on his knees, bum rosy and sore, hands held obediently behind his back, lips tight and firm around Greg’s cock as Greg sprawled in the big adjustable chair in the studio flat Mycroft had rented to serve as their private little kingdom.

Well. Greg’s private little kingdom. Mycroft was a feature of that kingdom—Greg’s very good boy. Very bad boy.

Greg had never let the tiger loose. He’d never taken what he wanted, demanded what he liked. Never dared think about it in the first place. He’d been the perfect gentleman—only now he was reveling in his unexpected role as the perfect tyrant.

He loved it.

He thought he should hate himself for loving it.

“Please, no,” Mike whimpered, pinned against the door of the flat, arm twisted behind his back, face squashed into the polished oak. He didn’t use his safe word, though. Instead he squirmed against Greg’s body, pushed his butt back into Greg’s crotch. “Please, I’ll be good,” he husked.

“That’s right, love,” Greg growled in his ear. His heart was thundering, his adrenaline spiking, his cock hard as an iron rod. “That’s my good boy.” He gripped Mike’s arse. “Whose is this, sweetness?”

“Yours,” Mike husked, panting. “God. Yours.”

He’d never taken what he wanted before. He’d never demanded his lovers give themselves without argument. He didn’t know whether he loved himself for the rippling, fierce, Tiger King persona that had arisen in response to his Mike’s needs, or hated himself for lowering his standards and releasing his discipline.

“You’re such a selfish pig,” Patsy had said. “You, you, you. You’re faithful. You’re tired. You’re a cop—the good guy. It’s never your fault you’re never here. It’s not your fault the entire bloody sodding world outranks me and my needs. It’s not your fault that fucking Sherlock this and arse-kissing Donovan that and that ugly clot Anderson something or other else—it’s all just part of the job. A good man’s job. But you don’t even seem to want me when we do get together. What kind of lover falls asleep before he can dip his wick? That made me feel so sexy…. Not. At least Romney makes me feel like a woman, not just baby’s favorite teddy. All the disadvantages of a lover and none of the fucking orgasms. I can’t roll over at night because you’re wrapped up around me, but damned if you’re able to make me feel wanted in bed.” She shut her eyes. “We did it in the school showers yesterday, you knob. Not fifteen minutes after the last kid left the building. It was hot and crazy and his hands were everywhere and we couldn’t keep away from each other. He fucked me standing up. The tiles were so damned cold. It was the best damned sex I’ve had in ten years.”

Now he almost agreed with her, his own mind filled with memories of his Mike sobbing, begging to be taken—taken hard, taken fast.

They kissed in the taxi on the way to the flat, teeth clashing, hands gripping flesh, touching, taking pleasure like muggers taking rings, stealing every treasure.

“Strip.” He’d said it, intentionally leaning against a wall, arms crossed, radiating pure “copper.” Tough. Strong. Not willing to put up with nonsense. Commanding. “Take off that posh suit, and show me my pretty boy. I want to see that neat little arse. I want to see your cock plump up just because you know I’m watching you.”

Sometimes Mike would resist—beg Greg not to “make” him. Sometimes he’d turn it into the hottest strip tease Greg had ever seen. Mike’s eyes were knowing. His movements languid, but charged with desire. He was shy—and wanton. He needed Greg—needed Greg to demand, to take, to master him, to force him to submit. He needed Greg to be anything but a gentleman and a mensch.

One day Greg had sent his lover out into the world with an anal plug up his arse and the commandment to leave it in until he came home…because Greg wanted him to know he was owned all day. The words had made the old Greg squirm in shame and dismay. Tiger Greg just purred, lazy and strong and demanding. Half way through the day he texted his Mike, his good boy. “I’ll deal with it when I come to the flat.”

He’d come to the flat late. On purpose. He’d strode in, grabbed Mike’s arm, tossed him to the mattress, wrenched down his trousers and boxers, then stalled, playing with the plug, tugging it, twisting it, pushing it in deeper so it dragged across Mike’s prostate. He’d laughed at him—a dirty, wicked little laugh as he described his hot, needy little lover just gagging for it.

“You are, aren’t you? You’re gagging for me to pull it out and shove in myself. Drill your bum.”

Mike had panted and moaned. “Yes.”

“Such a dirty boy.”

“Yes… Please. Do it.”

“Do what, sweetheart?”

It had become a game, though it had taken time. His Mike was afraid to voice his own desires and fantasies—afraid that stating them too clearly would take the heat out of the action when it came. But Greg? He found it hot when tall, lean, clean, posh Mycroft Holmes begged him, needed him and let him know it. He found it beyond sanity when his Mike lost it, sobbing for his cock, or begging for a spanking, or creeping humbly up the bed to be tied to the brass headboard before being buggered to a roaring climax. His Mike. His sweet boy. His lover, gagging for him.

He'd taken Mike without words. He’d plowed him hard. He’d checked, over and over, half out of concern for Mike but just as much out of pure raging joy.

“You want it, yeah?”

Mike would safe-word if he didn’t want it. Greg really didn’t have to ask. Asking—asking satisfied the last fading ghost of his gentleman self—while thrilling the new Tiger as Mike gasped and moaned and squirmed, whimpering “Yes. Yes. I want it. I’m a filthy little boy and I want it so much…”

Wild and crazy sex. Sex on the balcony of the flat in the dark, careless of the fact that they could be seen if anyone bothered to look. It was London. It was night. Even with Mike kneeling on the concrete of the balcony, hands tight around the iron bars of the railing; even with Mike begging him, over and over, no one looked up. No one ever looked up at the fierce, forceful man rogering his partner into surrender.

“Beg.”

“Please. Please, Greg. Take me. Make me…”

“Whose boy are you?”

“Your boy…”

A hand smacking down on a curved bum-cheek. A yelp of pain and desire.

“Mine.”

“Yes, Greg. Yours. Always, always yours.”

It was an act. Greg knew it. Mike knew it. It was a fantasy of Mike’s that had taken life in Greg’s desire. But the act had a life greater than all the decades of authentic, genuine Good Greg. Gentleman Greg.

He loved the game. He loved the performance. He loved the joy Mike got on his knees, arse red from a hard spanking, hands tied, cock fat and red with a cock-ring and leash arrangement holding his erection firm and underlining his enactment of obedient surrender.

He’d bought his lover a collar to wear under those crisp cotton shirts. All day at the new Met building, as he did his paperwork and sent out his teams, he’d think about Mycroft, his little Mikey, the British Government in all his magnificent brilliance, wearing his collar with the little tag that said, “Greg’s Bitch.”

They’d lie in the bed when they were fucked out, and contemplate other fantasies—and discuss which were best kept as shared imagination, and which they might someday risk playing out for real.

“I keep thinking of you sucking down Sherlock, with John’s cock up your bum.” He wrapped his arms around Mycroft. “You don’t have to like it, love, but, God, it’s hot.”

Mike shivered in his embrace. “Mmm.”

“Admit it.”

“Very well. I admit it. But it’s not happening. Not in a million years.”

“I didn’t think it was. But—maybe next weekend? Here? In our minds? That big vibrator up your butt for John, and that cock-gag for Sherlock, and me playing with your cock and balls and telling you how it happens, and how hot you look?”

Mike buried his face in his lover’s chest, and murmured embarrassed agreement—his cock so hard it dug a dent in Greg’s firm thigh. Greg hugged him, and kissed him, then flipped him on his face and took his arse, gripping Mike’s cock until they both came.

“Say thank you,” he said, after, lying on top of Mike, face pressed into his lover’s shoulders.

“Thank you,” Mike whispered. “Oh, God, thank you.”

Greg didn’t know if he was a mensch any more, or a monster. He’d stop in a second if Mike’s safe-word was said. He left only such marks as Mike seemed to like. He played only fantasies they both thought hot. But---

He was Greg Lestrade, and his boy was Mike, and he took care of his boy. He mastered his boy. He took what he wanted, and kept Mike in his place. And it was the hottest relationship he’d ever enjoyed.

“Whose boy are you?” he asked his lover, in the dark, when they were both half asleep.

“Yours,” Mike whispered back.

“Damn straight you’re mine.” He held his lover tight—almost too tight. He touched him without asking permission first. He teased the tip of his cock, with no intention of doing more. “Mine. My Mike.”

“Yes,” Mike husked, and whined as his cock grew hard in Greg’s hand.

“Show me,” Greg said, and laughed when his lover came, unable to resist his master.

 


End file.
